Turns out that tomorrow is the 18th. Fuck aye, time sure has a way of getting away from you when you’re having fun. Or not having fun, maybe drowning instead. Mother fucking time and perceptions and perspectives and fucking… shit just getting in the way.
That’s the whole fucking thing though. That’s life. THAT IS LIFE.
It’s not about one person. Or one activity. One deed. One responsibility. One obligation. One desire. One love. One interest. One sense. One… any-thing.
I am a single person. I am just me. In the here and now. Right fucking here, right now. There IS NO TEAM BEHIND MODERNMYSTICMOTHER. Even if I wish there was.
It’s just me.
However I do have friends. Sometimes they help by giving advice, reading stuff, giving feedback. But that’s it. Sometimes their feedback is clear, sometimes it’s not. But whatever, it doesn’t matter. This thing is just a whatever thingy anyway. It’s not my life. But it does contain my life story.
That’s all this fucking blog was about anyway. A vaccuum dust bag, or a paper bag, or a fucking… i dunno.. luggage carry-on carpet bag.
This blog was just a place to air out my head. Unload steam. Word vomit into my bucket. I dunno, don’t care. It can be anything you want it to be.
I wanted it to be a house. A home. A place for me and my friends to come and hang out and share shit together. Shit talk, laugh, reminisce. But it’s not that at all. It’s a glass house. Of 13 ghosts. And we can’t throw stones lest the walls break and they are released into the fucking wild.
I wanted it to be a library. A resource centre. A place for me and my friends to check out some pretty interesting information, see whats fact, fiction, non-fiction.. A meta-reference referrential resource. Of shit that I just like. But… that never turned out to be that way either. It’s become a museum. A fucking archaic relic of old bullshit same-old same-old. And we all look, and make our criticisms. But no one bothers to actually engage directly with me about anything (not true, SOME people do. Majority do not).
It seems to have become an art gallery, where we can all look at shit, and gawk and admire. But I’m not a piece of art. I’m a person. Talk to me. This is not performance art, I’m literally just doing or saying or FEELING everything I write about (past/present, can’t know the future).
I only came here to make friends. But no one wants friends. They want an audience. They want a jolly good pat on the back or whatever to sooth their fucking ego. So fuck it. Me too. I can play that fucking game. I know all about games. And shit. A bunch of different shit. From personal experience. Whether they’re my own personal experiences, or the experiences of PEOPLE I KNOW IN PERSON, they’re all fucking real stories. Even if it doesn’t sound like it.
I HAVE ENOUGH FRIENDS, I DON’T NEED ANY MORE, THANK YOU.
I have selected my friends. I have chosen them. I have reached out in little ways, and I know who they are. I don’t know if they know, but it doesn’t matter. I know. If they ask, I will tell them the truth, as I have always done.
MODERNMYSTICMOTHER.COM will be taken down, reworked, rejigged, and reconstructed. It will be different from here on out.
You wanted my name and my face? SURE. Have it. I give it to you freely.
But in return, I remove my words of wisdom from this hell hole. You will all receive your dues, I will still feed you. But you will receive my scraps. Oh there are a shit ton of scraps, I’m a fucking ravenous and hungry devourer of stuff (I have been compared to a Kirby, a cookie monster, and a garbage disposal. LOL). There’ll be plenty of crumbs to go around.
But if you want the real deal, the good shit? You’ll need to pay my mother fucking ACTUAL MONEY to have a seat at my table and enjoy the feast, the fruits I cultivated in my very own garden of eden. I made my shit up myself. I made this fucking place. I will tell my fucking story my own way. You do not have permission to take take and just fucking take.
You must learn to pray.